


Of Milk and Honey

by ADevilsHunger (Dream_tempo)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Fingerfucking, First Time, Forced Orgasm, Freeballing, Jock Derek, Jock Straps, Knotting, Locker Room, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Self-Lubrication, Were-Creatures, Werecoyotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/ADevilsHunger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scent is everywhere. <br/>The gas station. <br/>The movie theatre. <br/>The grocery store. <br/>The top floor balcony of his house—just outside the French doors to Derek’s bedroom. <br/>Like warm honey and sweet cream still in its pail. It’s out there somewhere on the vast preserve and it makes his eyes flutter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Milk and Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mulder200](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mulder200/gifts).



> The very first of my kinky tumblr prompt fics-- hooray! This comes to us by the virtue of: "Mulder200 asks for Coyote Stiles/Werewolf Derek first time, knotting, mates new kid in town" and "Would you consider doing some sterek, forced orgasm, with some knot play, werewolves or a/b/o dealer choice, please and thank you." 
> 
> I think I managed to get just about everything in there without overriding with my own kinks (hopefully). I hope it's what my prompters were looking for. ^^

It’s a week before Derek’s first day of junior year that he scents something on the air. Like warm honey and sweet cream still in its pail. It’s out there somewhere on the vast preserve and it makes his eyes flutter and his lips open in a soft moue. His brow knits and his feet plant hard against the ground even as his sisters dash out ahead of him—still laughing and screaming as they run through the forest and try to get out the last bits of wildness that lingers in their muscles and veins. He can’t understand why they’re not smelling this, why they haven’t pulled up short too.

Somehow his heart starts beating faster than when he was giving chase and his skin starts to itch with the sensation that there’s something— some _one_ out there—waiting for him. His palms sweat when he places them against the rough bark of a tree, gripping tight at the solid pillar to try and ground himself, even as he feels like whisking off along that breeze. His throat is tight when he swallows and his knees buckle when he tries to walk and his chest blows out wide as he can’t help but draw gulping lungfuls of that saccharine air.

The ambient sounds filter out of his surroundings and Derek’s field of vision narrows to a point off in the distance—a flash of fur too small to be any of his kin. The wily thing pauses for a moment to stare his way and then sets of with a rustle, galloping with the soft whuffs of padded paws against loose dirt. Heart skipping a beat, Derek feels his face heat with a flush and his head soar with a sudden, drunk rush. He licks at his lips and his throat clicks on a swallow and he falls against the trunk of the pine, temple sticking in sap.

He doesn’t even notice until his mom finds him and they have to cut a clump of his hair to pull him away.

* * *

 

The scent is everywhere.

The gas station.

The movie theatre.

The grocery store.

The top floor balcony of his house—just outside the French doors to Derek’s bedroom.

* * *

 

Derek’s actually glad to get back to high school—the overpowering stink of teenagers hollowing out that thick, sweet scent that has started to spice with something sharp like cloves. It saves him from those embarrassing moments when he finds himself waking from a blank stupor in the middle of the parking lot after hearing a door slam—jeans tented and starting to show a wet spot, drool sliding down his chin. He’d just been picking up some hamburger and more ketchup for dinner, but when his head crooked and his whole body turned of its own accord, he found himself standing in front of a powder blue jeep, _this_ close to rubbing himself off against the doors.

Classes are mostly just idle time at the beginning—syllabi being handed out, expectations outlined, tentative rules being tested on unresponsive students. Derek mostly stares out windows and thinks about running through the trees, rifling through burrows, and maybe, finally, tackling a wild little beast that he’s only ever seen again in the corners of his eyes. Just the vision of it makes his leg jimmy up and down impatiently beneath the desk and an unconscious smile ooze across his lips.

He thinks he catches little snippets of heated, tacky viscosity through the halls, but shakes it off and convinces himself it’s that fever dream leaking into his reality. Derek tries to listen to his friend’s good-natured bitching during lunch, but finds himself staring out the wall of windows at a boy straddling a high branch of one of the aspen trees. His legs are swinging and his bright eyes never stay still while he tears idly at a sandwich. Upturned nose, plush pink lips, hair full of twigs—Derek’s breathless.

* * *

 

Trying out is a formality for returning varsity players, but Derek dutifully shows up with his pads on and his crosse twirling loosely between his fingers. His feet bounce nimbly on the field as he limbers up and runs a couple suicides across its width. He feels in control here, powerful here, right, here. He scents the air and catches warm rubber from the track to the right, flat soda beneath the bleachers, and sharp sweat mellowed by tangy, teenage ass.

It makes adrenaline shoot through his blood and pimples break across his skin because it’s familiar—it’s pedestrian—and it doesn’t make him wonder, doesn’t make him want. It riles him up and his stomach clenches and he fucking grins and feels like whooping. So he does. And half a dozen boys follow suit, clapping him on the back and leaping into the air, high off each other.

Everything is how it’s supposed to be until newcomers are asked to the field and out of nowhere, _he_ walks on. His shirt is short enough to be called a crop top—exposing thick, dark hair standing out against pale skin dotted with little beauty marks that Marilyn Monroe would envy. His shorts stop mid-thigh and the cut is straight out of the 70’s. He hasn’t got a jock or even a cup because Derek can see him swing across the seams when he walks—fabric clutching to a gentle curve for just a split second. He looks up from under his lashes like he’s waiting for Derek to comment, lips twitching—waiting to play up or crease down—and that singular attention has his own brows drawing tight across his forehead.

He doesn’t have time to assuage the boy’s shy panderings as the whistle blows and they’re thrown into the chaos of a scrimmage—newbies being tested against recurring players. Derek plays for shit—head whipping around to always keep those loping legs in view and unable to keep himself from giving chase, even when there’s no case for it. The wild boy grins and yips and lets Derek get close only to dance out of the way and beam when Derek stumbles, but keeps plowing on.

That sweet scent has filtered up behind his eyes, making them heavy, and Derek just wants to bury his face down in that narrow, enticing vee—just breathe hot and open-mouthed against a flaccid tenderness, maybe tuck his cheek beneath a soft, heavy ballsack, roll on his back and show his belly and lick at coarse hairs covering a musky rim. He can catch that flare of cloves permeating from there—suddenly has that laser focus again where he can pinpoint the aroma radiating from below that supple, silken bow of a back.

Somewhere deep down in his mind, Derek knows what it is. More than primal instinct, he remembers it from a far off time that he can’t recall—like instantly feeling at home in someplace new. He remembers the mulled heat on the back of his tongue and the lethargic trickle trailing down his chin and the turgid bloom against his lips—an obscene unfurling blush that nearly bowls him over. He doesn’t know how, but he knows.

The gangly, unbridled boy takes off for the sidelines before the try-outs are even over with overlarge eyes and an eagerness making his body thrum. There’s no question of following, no other idea that even crosses his mind. Derek’s helmet thuds against the grass, gloves paff against the sidewalk, pads clang against the bleachers. In the locker room his boy is waiting, shirt thrown aside, body curled around a bank of metal shelving, thigh wrapped round the corner. When Derek follows, he bites at his fingers and twirls away, down another row—leading them deeper into the back until they’re right by the showers.

He looks at Derek for a long, silent moment before his thumbs are hitching in the band of his shorts and they’re being pulled down— kicked off his legs. His thighs are strong and furry, his hips are narrow and sharp—his skin smacks wetly between his legs when they spread just right. Derek’s whole body heats slow and radiating and he feels flush with fever.

His boy’s cock is little and peachy and rests against the bed of his uneven balls so sweetly. Derek steps forward to cup his palm around it and his fingers brush gently, reverently against the wrinkled sack. He smiles soft and rubs his face against the smooth round of a shoulder shrugged in front of him. Gripping just a little firmer, he lips against the sweet skin, leaving a shining, wet trail. Clever, sure fingers find his own shorts and pull— dropping them to his feet—and then work his cup loose with a harsh clatter.

The pocket of ribbed fabric is pushed aside and Derek sighs as he slides his feet across the textured floor to get his legs wider—thick, breeding cock swinging in the air, ripe, unwashed balls sliding on the insides of his thighs. Sharp, careful nails and calloused pads worm into the wet folds of his foreskin and burrow down to find the head. He lets go of his lover’s perking flesh to wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and slide down to squeeze his ribs, hands playing for the swollen wetness he needs to know.

Their chests bump and slide and Derek’s toes curl at the rasp of hair and catch of firm nipples, bellies fluttering and sticking to each other from the dried salt of sweat. He noses at the perch he’s placed his face on until he works to the hollow of his boy’s throat and licks at the moisture there—swearing it tastes like vanilla. His own skin feels tight and ready to rupture as a thumb pushes insistently at the cleft of his cockhead and ushers out wetness that’s half precum and half piss from over excitement. The watery mixture doesn’t bead, but runs a quick trail down a delicate wrist before succumbing to gravity and dripping to the floor.

Derek’s chest rumbles in pleasure at the aggressive sensation, sub vocal sound bouncing off the walls. In answer his own fingers part pliant flesh and brush aside a wispy beard to press against that heated bud, sliding in the viscid liquid—milk and honey. The muscles beneath his touch quiver and pucker before unfolding with a little smack, warm air seeping out and saturating the air with cloves. He sinks right in to the velvet heat with open welcome, drawn to the second knuckle by its generous sucker.

His boy collapses his hips and mewls in Derek’s ear like he was made for just this. Derek lifts his head to rub their noses and stare deep into those gilded eyes as he pumps his fingers with lewd squelches—deep, deep, and deeper. That rosy mouth is open and loose and wet and Derek can’t keep himself from licking at it, nibbling the soft edges, sucking it with a second-natured sweetness. Slick is starting to gather in his palm, squirting into it when his fingers plunge, and he cups it carefully to share between them, sucking into his cheeks before letting them get plundered.

The way it slides down his throat and soaks into his palette has his knot starting to swell and Derek groans when his boy combs unkempt pubes away from the root to pinch at the swell, pressing forefinger to thumb and forcing the globe through the ring again and again with more and more pressure as it grows larger and larger. Derek lets him play for as long as he can manage—hips rutting in aborted fucks as his body begs to plumb and seed—but he needs something more, something completing.

Without knowing how they get from one point to another, Derek finds his lover pressed against the metal lockers, ass presented and darling cock dangled between spread thighs. Chest heaving in great bellows, he himself is bent into a crooked shape—forehead pressed to the knob of the spine, hands sat atop the swells of that pale ass, knot dragging inside the gummy crack. Their bodies only touch at these three points and Derek can’t bend himself out of the contortion, spurred by something that positions his body for him.

The flushed head of his cock is peeking from its hood and grinding into the soft patch of hair in the small of his boy’s back, spitting every time his knot catches against the greedy rosebud beneath it. The soaking muscle lips at his bulb like a hungry mouth, suckling at the heated skin and trying to draw him in. The bundle of nerves growing ever larger twinges and jumps at the pressure and Derek finds himself grinding it down against the muscle, pulling at the rim with his thumbs to expose more downy flesh.

His boy is whimpering, legs trembling, skin sweating, but Derek can’t offer him comfort. His focus is singular and his body needs to claim. He’s large enough now to keep those yielding separated with just his knot as he grinds into that seeping musk—so his hands travel over the hard spurs of hips to scratch at that delicate vee covered in fine hair before gripping tightly at soft skin, stretched tight over engorged glans. The entire shaft fits in the palm of his hand while the spongy head pops out just above his thumb and those fuzzy balls drag tenderly along the inside of his wrist.

Derek pulls long and languid, twisting his joints in milking motions, and feels the body beneath him jump and convulse in response. The gentle mewls abruptly turns to high pitched whines and the delicate cock in his hand strains with a hard flex. Slick is dribbling out the sucker, past Derek’s knot, and down their thighs more and more steadily and his boy winches his eyes shut as he shakes his head and his shoulders tense. “It’s okay,” Derek whispers, not familiar with the tone his voice has taken—encouraging and soft, “you can let go. I have you now.”

In the end, he has to take it, has to usher and grind and massage the treacle of opalescent liquid that runs down his fingers—and it makes a sob punch out of the desperate creature beneath him. Derek’s eyes are rolling back in his head as he’s flooded with that musk—so thick he can taste it on his tongue. The curvature of his knot starts to catch on the flare of that opening, being squeezed when it contracts.

The pressure right behind his pelvis is getting to be too much—his flesh unable to swell any larger to accommodate the climax he’s holding back and Derek can feel his thighs and toes and ass clench as his hips buck and he bends nearly in half. With a warbling howl, great gouts of cum splash against his boy’s back and Derek feels a deep contentment settle in his bones at the image.

The two of them sink to the floor together, unbothered by the puddle of fluids beneath their skin and Derek’s cock continues to leak in a slow stream. His boy twists around to capture his lips and as their bodies slide together, Derek is at ease. For the first time in a week, he just wants to lie down and close his eyes. “I found you,” he whispers, tangling them together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know what you thought! I tried something a little different this time and was quite nervous about it. :P 
> 
> Also! I have a very limited number of prompt space openings left, so if you want your own fic, come leave me an ask over at [my tumblr](http://www.drivenbyadevilshunger.tumblr.com)


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